by Dave Freer
Well, when he was sure he was going to die anyway, he'd try using the jewel. In the meanwhile he would keep walking. The mountains couldn't be far now, could they? As for the jewel, well, if it could stay cool, perhaps it might help his burning mouth? He pushed it in between his lips.
It was cool. Cool enough to start some saliva rising from an inner well. As soon as the jewel was wet there came the weirdest of sensations. Vastness. Memory. Great seas of it. A terrible war threatening even the existence of life itself. Flight: A huge hand reaching for the stars, and then, when the stars had been almost within grasp, the memory of treachery as black and bitter as gall. Overlying all of this was a powerful, desperate calling. He could see the place: There were endless plains of intense whiteness, and a mountain, no place of trees and streams, but a towering white monolith, ribbed with broken gray rock standing in the middle of the limitless white plains. It was bone-freezing cold, and the air was thin and biting.
Using the pendant's chain he pulled the jewel plug out of his mouth. The feeling was gone, cut off as if by a knife. He was still in the heat of the desert. It must have been some kind of illusion, he decided, eyeing the jewel suspiciously. Yet, despite the warm dry air, he was shivering. And there was a powerful compulsion to go to the white plains, even though he had no idea where they were. Shaking himself, Keilin set off again, thirst gradually washing away other concerns.
Some fifty miles away the clouds hit higher, cooler slopes. Thunderheads began forming, and soon heavy driving rain was washing down the bare hillsides. The first that Keilin knew of it was hearing a distant rumble in the valley. He'd read of lions. Would they live out here? Fear plucked at him, enough to begin to chill the jewel against his chest. But . . . surely there was no water for animals? It was only when the roaring came closer, growing louder and more constant that it dawned on him. It was water, lots of it. His moment of relief was overwhelmed by the realization that he had to get out of the middle of the riverbed, fast.
Like a brown wall it came, thundering closer, as Keilin scrambled for the red rocky slopes, running as fast as he could, calling on the last of his reserves. Minutes later he sat panting on a high rock, looking down on the flood. Soon he dared to creep down and drink the muddy water. Perhaps there was hope after all. Perhaps he could reach the cool green valleys in the mountains of his dreams.
* * *
"What's yer name, missy?" With a shock the small Princess realized that the shifty looking man was attempting to distract her from his advance. His attempts at surreptitiously edging forward were laughable. Except . . . she didn't want to laugh. Her stomach muscles tensed, and she reached a small hand up to finger her earlobe. It was all she could do not to run, and not for all the will in the world could she stop herself from biting her lower lip before she replied. Her nervousness had given her an instant to think. If he knew who she was he would see her as a valuable trade item, to be guarded every instant. She'd better play some other part.
Her potential role models were rather limited. If she pretended to be an aristocrat's daughter it would suggest she had some value, and might be ransomed. The fellow would certainly tie her up . . . It would have to be someone from the lower orders then. A maid perhaps? She had always been attended by maids. She knew that there were also parlor maids and kitchen maids, but she'd never given much attention to any of them. They just were, in the way that air was. You didn't notice what they did, or how they behaved. They were trained to be inobtrusive. If they weren't they . . . went.
She could only think of three women of the lower classes to whom she'd truly paid attention. Firstly, her herbal poisons instructress, who had been positively ancient—at least fifty—and who, despite her resemblance to the bad ones in the fairy tales, one very carefully didn't call a witch. Secondly, the two high-class whores who had taught her about bed arts. She didn't think a young poisoner would be well received, so—she'd be a young whore. After all, she knew the theory, and she'd have him in thrall very rapidly.
She dropped her chin forward, cocked her head sideways, and raised her eyebrows coquettishly, "Bella, handsome. What's yours, then?"
"Hur! Best if yer don't know, sweetie." He was standing over her now. She was aware of just how big and coarse he really was.
He reached for her, and she steeled herself not to shrink. He pulled her to her feet, fondling her breasts as he did so. Shael decided to change roles very rapidly. The theory was one thing; even watching the practical demonstrations from her hidden vantage had been all right. She knew how she was supposed to respond. Her body just wasn't ready to cooperate.
She pulled away from him, struggling to get free of the thick arms, "Please . . . please don't. You'll get a good ransom for me if I'm, uh, not . . . not hurt. Please, can't you just let me go and . . . give me something to eat."
Her reaction only made him hold her more tightly. The struggle seemed to excite him. He laughed, pushing her down onto the thick mat of grass and sedges. "Don't gi' me that crap! It won't hurt you, ducky, and I'll give yer something fine to eat . . . afterwards." His knee forced her thighs apart. He imprisoned both of her frantically clawing little hands in one of his large powerful ones. With the other hand he tore her skirt and underclothes away. His stinking breath was hot on her face. As he fumbled at his own belt, Shael decided that the theory was absolutely and totally unlike the practical experience.
And suddenly anger, wild searing anger, ripped through her, replacing the panic and fear. She was a Royal Princess. She was Cru, dammit, not some peasant trull to be abused like this! His fumbling hand was trying to open her, to guide his blindly thrusting manhood. She spat up into his face. Then again into his half-closed eye, and then, as he turned his face away, she lunged up and bit his neck with all her strength. She felt her teeth meet as he pulled away from her. She tried to roll away from the buffeting slap. "You fuckin' bitch!" It made her head reel, but despite this she knew what she had to do while she had the chance. As he'd slapped her, his one knee had come off the ground. Her leg had slid under it. Her thighs were well-trained and strong, and she lifted her knee with all the force she could muster.
The would-be rapist reeled back, his grasp on her hands slackening, as he put a sheltering hand over his testicles. He'd fallen half sideways, off her. "I'll kill yer for this!" He bellowed in pain. As he spoke, a raking set of claws stabbed at his eyes . . . and she was rolling away. He dived at her, but she had had time to pull her knees up under her chin. There was no science in it, but the double-footed, instinctive kick caught him in the solar plexus. The force of the kick, plus his own momentum, emptied his lungs with an explosive whuf! and sprawled him sideways next to her. The stream was beside them. And it was full of rocks. She seized one with both hands, and brought it down on his head as hard as she could. He lay still, blood sluggishly oozing through his dirty hair. For a moment Shael was still too. Then she pounded his head several more times, before dropping the rock, her hands shaking. Only then did she spit out the piece of his flesh that she still had in her mouth.
"That," she said, after a long, long moment, with her voice quivering, "is what you get for trying to rape the daughter of the Tyrant, you . . . you . . ." Words failed her. The best she could manage was "pig!"
The anger that had carried her through her furious defense was over now, and the fear was beginning to steal back. She'd been lucky. If . . . if she hadn't won, he'd probably have killed her . . . afterwards. After a few moments her self-possession came back. He'd dropped his bag as he'd advanced on her. She walked over to it and opened it. Looted tawdry bits of silk; a few scraps of ornamental silver, probably stolen from a temple somewhere; a bone-handled dagger with a broken tip and . . . a pie. She stood, pie and knife in hand, when she heard a groan from behind her.
He was sitting up, blood still running down his face, which was contorted in a mixture of hatred and pain. Panic took her. She turned and ran.
She sat down in a brake of tall trees. It was a place of great natural beaut
y, the stream falling through a series of musical, lacy cascades into sunlight and leaf-shadow dappled pools. At this stage Shael only saw it as a place to hide. After a panting rest she began to take stock: What did she have, besides a black eye, a ripped skirt, a next-to-useless dagger, and a pie that she'd yet to find a chance to eat? What should she do now? Shapstone lay far behind. She'd seen no signs of the Morkth pursuit. But he was still after her. She shuddered. At least . . . she thought he was still after her. She hadn't seen him behind her for a while.
This side of Shapstone had been sparsely farmed, mostly just sheep-grazing lands, and the Morkth had burned the only two cottages she'd seen so far. So where should she go?
The sharp crack of a breaking stick, audible even above the water music, cut through her reverie. He had succeeded in following her. And his face, now a mask of scratches and dried blood, was flushed with pursuit . . . and triumph. "Thought I didn't 'ear you, little Princess!" He spat the last word out. "Those I'm goin' ta sell you to won't care what shape you're in. It'd make a good story for the alehouses. I'll be the man that finally screwed the world's ultimate royal bitch! I'm gonna make you suffer!"
Shael shakily held the dagger in front of her. She dropped the pie, her other hand fingering her bangles nervously. Suddenly she was aware of intense cold under her sweating fingers. This was what she'd felt in her apartments when Lord Blis had grabbed her. The picture of that scene leapt through the window of her mind.
The corpses fell and tumbled between them. Almost as an afterthought the majordomo's severed head popped out of thin air, and bounced against the man's legs. The deserter and would-be rapist staggered back. For a moment they stood frozen. Then he swore, his voice rising in sudden fear, "Motherfu—!"
Shael didn't stop to see what would happen next. She was already running when the air was hammered with a terrific booming sound. The leaves shook. Looking over her shoulder she saw a Morkth platecraft dropping stonelike onto the spot where she'd been a minute before. The terrible purple flare of their weapons drove her to dive deep into a bramble thicket, and to burrow down into it, too frightened even to pull away from the myriad needle points that pressed at her flesh.
It was perhaps half an hour later when she slowly began to extricate herself from the brambles, with much tearing and scratching. The birds were singing again and it seemed as if nothing had ever disturbed the tranquillity of this spot. She crept cautiously back to where she had been.
He would never chase her again. Not with a fist-sized hole seared through his chest. At the same time she could not take any of his garments to replace those he'd torn. The clothes had been very thoroughly taken apart, including every possible stitch and seam. Even his boots had been dismembered. A few coins from a slit-open neck pouch lay beside him. The other bodies too had been similarly searched. The sight of Blis's purple-mottled body was nearly too much for her. She turned away, and looked down at her bracelets. It was that one, she was sure. The one she didn't like very much. It was the old-looking one with its snaky double helix pattern and that chilly black stone, the stone with the oil-on-water surface which seemed to shift as she looked at it.
With sudden insight she realized that this was what the Morkth had been looking for. It was this bracelet that had had such unpredictable magiclike effects. But to use it was to summon the Morkth, too.
She picked up the pie, miraculously still intact, and walked away. There was much to think about, but she wanted to do it elsewhere. An hour later she was seated with her back to the wall of a burned-out shepherd's hut. The place had been fired, but not looted. Looting was not the Morkth way. The roof had burned, as had some of the rude furniture. But the moldy blanket from under the stone shelf had not. She would have something to sleep under tonight. There was food. Now to eat, and then sleep. The thought of food shut out all other ideas, even the horrors of the past twenty-four hours.
Shael bit into the pie with the sort of greed that she had never shown for even the most rare of sweetmeats. The crust was crumbly and rather stale, but the inside was full of tart fruit. She was more than two-thirds through it when she recognized the purple juice dripping off her fingers. She gagged. It had been almost inevitable. Bilberry preserve was common hereabouts.
She was hungry and more pragmatic the next morning, after an amazingly good night's sleep. She'd tossed and turned on the finest feather beds before. Now a few armfuls of heather and a smelly blanket had seemed wonderful. She brushed away the tiny black ants that had been making the most of her discarded dinner, and ate it herself. Sleep and food had done much to restore her mind's tone. She sat and looked at the bangle, thinking.
It gave her a direction of travel. Here she had what was potentially a source of riches and power, if she could use it where they could not reach her. Her background had taught her more about the Morkth than most humans cared to know. She knew, for instance that there were two factions of Morkth, and that their internecine fight was more bitter than their hatred of humanity. She also knew they struggled with high altitudes and low temperatures. Their attacks were almost always limited to the coastal cities and the fertile lowland plains. Therefore she would go to the mountains. She could see the purple line of them from here.
* * *
S'kith too had thought he would aim for the mountains. He had needed a goal, a geographical target of some kind. Now these lower life forms were hounding him in such a fashion that he began to doubt if he would ever reach the blue jaggedness he could see before him.
CHAPTER 5
Slave markets have a peculiar scent. The pheromones of human fear and desolation are concentrated there. The noses of those engaged in the trade become blunted to it, just as butchers become used to the sight of blood: besides it was not a profession for the overly squeamish. It was the lifeblood of the city of Castern, and in some way or another it impacted on all its citizens' lives. Which was why the townspeople were building the gibbet right in the middle of the market square. This man would hang where all the slaves could see him. There'd be no trap door's sudden drop for this one. No. He was going to dangle and jangle a bit. His throttling dance would be something the merchandise would remember. The fine upstanding citizens of Castern wanted to make a real example of him. He was worse than a slave who had killed his owner. He was a slave who'd killed a slave merchant, as well as committed another murder and a bit of cannibalism and rape. It was the latter crimes that had had him hunted by the countryfolk, but in this city it was the former the citizens had found so heinous. It was the sort of idea one rooted out at all costs.
They'd marched him down, past the lines of cages, to look at the scaffold they were building for him. He had stared long at it, his face expressionless, but then, it always was. Even now, he neither flinched nor wept, nor seemed defiant. As a warning to other watching slaves the exercise was worse than a failure. His captors did not understand that the gallows had no meaning for him. He'd never seen one before, and had no idea of its fell purpose. The mere wooden structure might make his escort shudder, but had no effect on him.
He'd run half the countryside ragged . . . and then been captured by a slip of a farmgirl, armed with no more than a cattle goad. S'kith 235 had stood when she'd told him to stand, had dropped his knife at her word, had allowed her to bind him and lead him like a lamb to the hunting soldiers, and scythe-and-pitchfork-armed countrymen. Now he stood in chains in an iron cage in the middle of the market. Occasionally passers-by would pelt him with rotten fruit or bits of dung. Yet he remained impassive. No signs of emotion moved across his wooden countenance, no matter what they did. They thought him tough beyond belief. They did not realize he was merely emotionally newborn.
S'kith 235 watched the three moving steadily from stall to stall. They were unusual enough to attract the attention of someone with a less intense curiosity than his . . . and he had nothing else to distract him. Most of the buyers who came to the market fitted into more-or-less defined categories. Masters and overseers looking for new lab
orers, wanting men with strength rather than intellect; haughty matrons in search of domestic staff, generally looking for ugly or disfigured young girls; furtive affluent folk, the young ones still conscience-pricked, the older ones with a terrifying jaded-hungry look, in their quest for sexual entertainments. Different sections of the market were dedicated to the different types of merchandise. Seldom did any buyer wander through more than one sector. Except these three. They'd started at one end and had been steadily going through it all.
They were an ill-assorted trio. One of them was short and broad, the other slim and obviously feminine, even to the Morkth-man's untrained eye, and the third exceptionally tall and, by the look of the sun reflecting off his head, bald. From S'kith's point of view this was something in the fellow's favor. He found the head and facial hair so overtly displayed by these mongrel humans repulsive.